


hold my hand and keep me close

by raumschiffe



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods, Emotionally constipated characters, M/M, c o u r t s h i p, graves has the emotional depth of DIRT, graves is crushing harder than a 12 year old, no magic either sorry, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8838991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumschiffe/pseuds/raumschiffe
Summary: Newt knows that he should go inside, that his father and brother are worried sick about him, but he’s reluctant to leave the Hippogriff. It was nudging him towards the house now, but Newt turns and engulfs it in a fierce embrace.


  “Promise me you’ll come see me again,” he says. “Promise me.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lincesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/gifts).



> guess who just finished her finals!!
> 
> this was taken from an [ask fill](http://tumbloncat.tumblr.com/post/154117120225/that-gods-au-tho-im-so-in-love-think-of-how) that i wanted to explore so here it is!! this is for [linc](http://tumbloncat.tumblr.com/) who got me into this ship in the first place and continues to be a GREAT FRIEND!!!!! ilysm grandma
> 
> **EDIT** i changed the title!! taken from ["by your side"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQ4MQ_uhBSs) by jonas blue

Newt Scamander is only three when, one afternoon, his mother asks him if he wants to see something extraordinary. He doesn’t quite understand, but smiles and nods at her anyway.

His mother leads him into the woods behind their humble cottage, her slender fingers laced securely with his smaller, chubbier ones. Newt’s coordination isn’t the best, so he carefully steps over rocks and raised tree roots. Winter is steadily approaching, and he takes more caution when he steps around patches of ice that have begun to form. All the while, his mother patiently waits as he navigates the path.

His mother tells him the names of the flowers and plants that have not yet been buried under the snow, and Newt takes in all of their names and memorizes their appearances. When they take a little break on a patch of low, flat rocks, Newt picks some of the said flowers and weaves them into a messily made crown. He revels in the sound of his mother’s laughter when he puts it on her head.

The sun has begun to sink, but the journey still hasn’t ended. Newt wants to tell his mother that he’s tired, that the cold has begun to seep under his blue cloak when suddenly she stops. Confused, he watches his mother crouch behind some bushes. First, she gestures for him to stand closer and holds a finger to her lips, then she finally points in front of her.

The great lake reflects the colors of the setting sun onto the ground, creating mesmerizing patterns of oranges and reds and yellows, but it’s the creature that drinks from the lake that catches Newt’s attention.

“That’s a Hippogriff,” his mother whispers, sounding as amazed as he is. It’s big, much bigger than a stallion, with an eagle’s head and talons and wings, and Newt is overcome with the need to go closer. He thinks his mother may be a mind-reader when she asks him, “Would you like to approach it?” He nods furiously, red curls bouncing along.

“You must do as I say,” his mother says. “There are things you must do before you approach them.”

She takes his hand once again and they slowly make their way through the clearing. Even though they don’t make a sound, the Hippogriff looks up at them. It seems wary of them, Newt thinks, as they stop a few feet from the great beast. He does as his mother says and maintains eye contact as he bows, going from frightened to ecstatic when the Hippogriff bows in return. Newt doesn’t need any more encouragement than his mother’s gentle push, and he approaches the beast excitedly.

Even when he stands on his tiptoes, he can’t reach any farther than the underside of the Hippogriff’s breast. As if sensing his frustration, the beast crouches down to accommodate the three year old. It doesn’t seem to mind when Newt runs his little fingers through the Hippogriff’s feathers and pets its beak. He lets out a peal of laughter when the Hippogriff curls its head around him, its beak nipping gently at his ear and his hair. In his enjoyment, he doesn’t hear his mother’s gasp.

Later when the moon starts its ascent, Newt knows they both have to part ways. His mother sweeps him up into her arms, and he can’t help but lean into her sadly as he watches the Hippogriff runs away and opens its wings to take flight.

When mother tucks him into bed that night, the events of the day and the warmth of the fire lulling him to sleep, he catches bits of his parents’ conversation. “He’s favored by the gods,” his mother whispers, but Newt doesn’t understand. He doesn’t always understand what his parents say.

That night, he falls into a deep sleep, the Hippogriff’s proud screech echoing in his dreams.

_-x-_

 

The moon shines high and bright above the village, and it’s the night when Newt’s mother dies.

His mother takes him into her arms in her final moments. Newt buries his face in her shoulder, gripping her nightgown tight in his fist. He can feel her weak heartbeat against his fingertips and the way her breathing gets labored. When his mother stops breathing, it reminds him of a candle being extinguished - all the warmth and brightness she exuded snuffed out by the cruel hand of death.

Newt doesn’t relinquish his grip when the mortician comes to prepare her body for burial. His older brother tries to pull him away, but he screams and cries and flails. In the end, it’s their father that ends up sending Newt out by hoisting the eight year old over his shoulder.

Grief overcomes the child and he runs out of their cottage and into the woods, ignoring his father’s calls for him to come back. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but his instincts lead him over rocks and around looming pine trees. The foliage overhead blocks out the light of the moon, but Newt doesn’t trip or slip.

He comes to a stop before the lake, its waters black as the night sky. His legs gave out from underneath him in exhaustion, and Newt begins to regret his actions. Winter had come already, and it came with winds more unforgiving than the last. In his hurry to leave he had forgotten to grab his cloak (or at least a scarf), and the chill has started to creep up on him. He doubts he’ll even be able to go home in the darkness, with the moon the only light to guide his way. Miserable, Newt tucks his knees close to preserve whatever body heat he has.

He startles when he hears something snap behind him, followed by a loud squawk. Newt stumbles to his feet and stares in amazement at the sight that greets him.

Warmth unfurls in Newt’s stomach, and he wonders why the beast looked so familiar. It stands proud and tall, looking down at him with intelligent orange eyes. Its feathers were as dark as the night sky, but they smoothly transitioned into grey fur dusted with white the further along its body it went. Its magnificent wings fluttered impatiently at its sides, and one of its deadly-looking talons pawed at the ground.

“ _You must do as I say_ ,” his mother whispers in his mind, unbidden. Remembrance brings a fresh wave of tears, but Newt doesn’t let them fall. It is one of his earliest memories, and it is one he cherishes deeply. He will not let it be tarnished by tears. “ _There are things you must do before you approach them_.”

The eight year old’s body moves of its own accord, maintaining eye contact as he bows. Apprehension blooms in Newt’s chest when the beast merely looks at him, and he tries not to panic as he thinks of what he had done wrong. However, it is quickly replaced by relief when the beast returns the bow. He approaches it with slow, measured steps, arm outstretched to touch the beast.

“ _That’s a Hippogriff_ ,” his mother whispers. Her voice sounds so far away. “ _Would you like to approach it_?”

Newt marvels at the feel of its feathers and the rough beak under his fingers, and a laugh makes it way out of the boy’s mouth when the Hippogriff starts to groom him. The feel of the beast’s beak nipping at his neck and ear tickles, and Newt tries to push him away, but it keeps him in place with one great wing.

Newt’s exhaustion makes itself known after a while. The Hippogriff watches as he tries to stifle his yawn, not yet ready to leave his newfound friend. He’s surprised when the beast lays down and gently nudges him to follow. With its wing secured around him once more, it pulls Newt close to its breast.

Here, Newt doesn’t feel the cold anymore, and he goes to sleep with the sound of the beast’s contented purrs around him.

That night, Newt dreams of flying.

He doesn’t travel far, but the feeling of looking over the woods is exhilarating. The cold wind streaks through his hair and brings a flush to his cheeks. He wraps his arms the Hippogriff’s neck as they fly - careful not to pull too hard on any of the beast’s feathers - and laughs in glee. He feels the Hippogriff rumble deep in its chest, and Newt fancies that it may be laughing too.

There’s a sudden jolt of movement, and Newt wakes. He’s still groggy, but he’s awake enough to realize that the Hippogriff had taken him home. With its assistance, he slides off the beast’s back.

Newt knows that he should go inside, that his father and brother are worried sick about him, but he’s reluctant to leave the Hippogriff. It was nudging him towards the house now, but Newt turns and engulfs it in a fierce embrace.

“Promise me you’ll come see me again,” he says. “Promise me.”

The Hippogriff answers with a few clicks of its beak, and Newt finally lets go. Both of them hear his father calling out his name from inside the house, and the Hippogriff takes this as its cue to leave. It runs back into the woods, and the Hippogriff’s shrill call echoes around the village as it takes off from the ground in a flurry of leaves and feathers.

 

_-x-_

 

Winter comes again the next year, and Newt runs into the woods at the first sign of snow.

Excitement courses through his veins as he navigates the path to the lake. He knows these woods like the back of his palm, so he doesn’t worry about getting lost. When he arrives at the clearing, he’s grinning so widely that his cheeks have begun to hurt.

He sits by the water, waiting excitedly for the Hippogriff to arrive. The sun hasn’t gone down much yet, so Newt understands if the beast will be a little late. After all, it’s not like Newt is always punctual too.

He leaves a couple hours later, albeit hesitantly, when the sun has already set and the Hippogriff hasn’t appeared.

Newt returns the next day, the hope in his heart not dampened at the least. When the beast doesn’t appear again, he returns again the next day.

And the next, and the next.

On the tenth day that the Hippogriff doesn’t appear, Newt trudges back home with a heavy heart. The wind sings as if in anguish, and the woods were echos his anguish.

He does this for four more winters before he gives up. On the last night of the last winter, with the moon as his only companion on the way home, he vows never to return to the lake, and Newt wonders if this is what heartbreak feels like.

 

_-x-_

 

There’s something with Newt that sets him apart from the other children in the village.

At thirteen, parents start encouraging their children to follow in their professions. Like the Kowalski boy, who bakes with his grandmother at dawn before they open their bakery at sunrise, or the eldest Goldstein girl, who started running her parents’ inn at 16 after they died at the hands of an illness.

But Newt was special, to say so the least. He had a way with the creatures - they’re as drawn to him as he is to them, and he knows what they need purely out of feeling. Birds and deer come to him of their own accord, unafraid as they feed on whatever food he has in his hands. Bear cubs would cuddle up next to him in the quiet of the forest, and wild cats would purr and rub up against him, begging for attention.

The villagers think it strange that Newt didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps, but they don’t dwell on it often. After all, Theseus was proving himself to be a very good merchant like their father, with his boyish charm and smooth voice. Their father didn’t mind that Newt would come home late every afternoon, hair in a bigger mess than it already is and skin scuffed with dirt after a day of observing and tending to woodland creatures.

 

_-x-_

 

On his seventeenth year, his father takes him aside to hand him a parcel. It’s wrapped in unremarkable brown paper that’s secured with twine, and Newt can’t stifle his gasp when he opens the gift. It’s a hardbound book with a maroon cover and gilded edges. Around three inches thick, it’s a heavy, yet comforting, weight in Newt’s hands.

“It was your mother’s,” his father explains, flipping the book open. Sure enough, his mother’s scribbled signature marks the bottom of the page. When Newt turns the page, he’s greeted by crude drawings of common healing plants and woodland creatures, and the further into the book he goes, the drawings become more and more refined and detailed. A little under halfway through, the drawings stop. “She started cataloguing the plants in her old village when she was around your age. Before she...before she died, she asked me to give it to you. She thought - “

Newt doesn’t mean to cut his father off, but he can’t help the emotion that swells up inside him. He flings his arms around his father’s torso, and he finds that he can’t stop chanting “ _thank you_.”

So he spends more time in the woods, cataloguing every single living thing he encounters - from the branches and leaves of trees that tower overhead, to the the moss that slither around the rocks under his feet. From a distance, he would observe and sketch the animals he spent his time with, taking note of every detail and every movement. On some days, he would prefer to stretch out in the sun, studying all of his mother’s notes and drawings and cross-referencing them with other textbooks on zoology and medicine.

In a flurry of colors, the seasons around him changes, and winter dumps a foot of snow on the village.

The sight of snow makes the children shout in glee, but it stirs doubt and uncertainty in the hearts of the adults. They didn’t have a very favorable harvest that season, and the snow would hinder their efforts to look for game in the woods significantly. This makes Newt nervous, because he knows what people do to creatures in desperation.

His worst fears come true a week later while he’s roaming in the woods. The yelp of a wolf pup reaches Newt’s ears immediately, and it fills him with alarm and worry. More distressed cries ring across the woods, and Newt follows the sound hurriedly. The sound leads him to the lake, to three men holding up wolf pups by the scruffs of their necks. They have bloodied knives strapped to their hips, and a another wolf’s carcass lays unmoving and bloody at their feet.

The sight leaves a bitter taste in Newt’s mouth. He immediately picks up the two hefty-looking rocks he finds and flings it at the group. It doesn’t hit them hard enough to wound, but they _do_ make the men drop the pups they were holding, so Newt counts it as a win. There’s a brief feeling of victory when he sees the pups run for safety, but then it suddenly crosses his mind that this might not have been the best plan of action as the men turn to him, snarling.

Newt’s fast, but these men are faster. Two of them hold him down by the arms and the other draws his arm back as if to deliver a punch. Newt clenches his eyes shut, preparing for the blow.

But the pain doesn’t come, and he opens his eyes slowly.

The men lay on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from their mouths. Newt doesn’t think he can be more surprised than he already by the turn of events, but he is anyway when he looks up from his assailants.

A man stands not far from the lake, one hand raised as if he casted a spell. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing frames a face as hard and unrelenting as stone. A light dusting of stubble highlights the cut of his jaw, and his lips are pressed into a line. There’s reproach in the furrow of his brow as he looks on at the unconscious men, but his expression gentles when his eyes meet Newt’s.

Warmth blooms in Newt’s chest, along with uncertainty. The man’s piercing gaze feels like it could see right through Newt, and he resists the urge to hide himself and whatever secrets he holds. But what bothers Newt the most is the color of his eyes; they’re the same shade as the setting sun, just as bright and stunning. There’s recognition in his heart, as well as longing, but he doesn’t know why he feels this way.

Newt takes a step forward to approach the stranger, but he turns and walks away briskly. His cloak is as dark as night, and it flutters softly around him as he walks, ignoring Newt’s call of “ _wait, please, let me thank you_.” Newt nearly slips on a patch of ice in his haste, and by the time he’s composed himself, the stranger is gone, and he’s left no trace behind.

Standing there in the snow and the quiet of the woods, Newt feels like he’s nine again, experiencing heartbreak for the very first time.

 

_-x-_

 

This year’s last harvest is the most bountiful they’ve had in years, and the villagers decide to throw a celebration.

There are tables laden with food at the side, brimming with savory roasts, sweet-smelling pastries, and skins of wine. The sounds of delighted laughter and chatter fill the air as the villagers dance and mill about. Even the roaring fire in the middle of the festivities crackles merrily, warding off the chill that the end of autumn brings.

Newt smiles as he watches the celebration at a distance. He’s twenty-one now, and of some good standing in the village. His way with animals became of importance after Tina Goldstein had asked him to look at a guest’s horse that had been acting strangely. Newt’s calm demeanor had placated the horse enough for him to treat whatever was making the beast uncomfortable, and all of a sudden, he was named a veterinarian. It was surprising, to say so the least. He hadn’t received a formal education on animal medicine, but he was happy with his work.

At midnight, the celebration starts to die down. Lamps were lit, and parents started dragging their young children back to their homes, but some people chose to stay behind, content with finishing the rest of the wine by the cozy warmth of the fire. Newt was starting to feel drowsy himself, head made heavy by the wine.

He was making his way back to his cottage when he feels someone looking at him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and his wariness and lethargy dissipate when he meets brilliant orange eyes.

His body moves of its own accord towards the man standing at the edge of the woods, but not without plucking the last three pink camellias from his garden. In a couple short strides, Newt stands in the front of the stranger, and he doesn’t flinch or move away.

Up close, the stranger seems more perfect. He’s nearly as tall as Newt, but broader of shoulder and not nearly as lanky - quite the opposite, really. He stands as still as a statue, with features as cold as stone to match. His eyes have a wary sort of curiosity to them as he reaches for the flowers Newt’s offering.

“For happiness,” Newt explains, but he knows the stranger can see through his lie. The stranger’s hand rises slowly to take the flowers, and Newt isn’t surprised to find his skin cold. He _is_ surprised, however, when the stranger doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Happiness,” the stranger repeats slowly. His voice is a rich tenor that caresses Newt’s skin and makes him shiver. Ever so slowly, he brings Newt’s hand to his lips, brushing a feather-light kiss across his knuckles and fingertips.

“Come to the lake at winter’s first snow. Will you wait for me?” His breath dances along Newt’s knuckles, and it makes his heart race. He doesn’t need a mirror to know what he looks like now, flushed and giddy, but he nods eagerly all the same.

So when the stranger finally departs, Newt makes his way back home. There’s a skip in his step, and he feels like someone lit fireworks inside him.

The snow can’t come soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course not!” He says it with as much conviction as he can, but it comes out wavering anyway as a surge of emotion overcomes him. “Why would you – why would you even ask me of that? Don’t you think you’ve caused me enough grief already?” The stranger inhales sharply at his question and pulls Newt tighter against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this took so long i've been writing like 5 other fics it hink

When the first snow of the season falls, Newt grabs his cloak and races to the lake.

At this point of the year, the woods paint a very pretty picture - the snow isn’t heavy enough yet to blanket the foliage, so the trees look like they’ve been sprinkled with fine powdered sugar. Patches of sweet alyssum and honeysuckle have begun to grow, and the breeze is tinged with their fragrance. If this were any other season, Newt would have stopped to examine them, or he would have collected some to press inside his journal, but this isn’t just any other season.

When he reaches the clearing, his heart is beating like it’s about to burst out of his chest. The stranger stands by the lake, holding something in his hands that Newt can’t see. He turns as Newt nears, and up close, he can see remorse in the stranger’s eyes. He takes Newt’s hand in his, and, almost reverently, turns it palm up and deposits whatever he was holding earlier. Reluctantly, he lets go of Newt’s hand and takes a step back.

He’s give him a single feather, about a foot in length and pitch black in color. Newt doesn’t need to examine it any further to know what is it, or rather, _whom_ it’s from.

Hurt and betrayal rear their ugly heads like livid stallions in his chest, but even greater is the joy that rises like the tide and fills him to the brim. Newt feels overwhelmed by the rage of emotions inside him, but the stranger’s query that rips him from his reverie.

“Would you like me to leave?” There’s uncertainty in his voice and resignation in the lines of his body. They don’t match the powerful and imposing figure he cuts, and Newt wants nothing but to take him into his arms. “Ask me of it, and I shall, but – “

Newt doesn’t let him finish, rather, he launches himself at the stranger. He catches Newt in surprise, and the force topples them both onto the freshly fallen snow with a soft _thud_. He takes advantage of their positions and clings desperately onto the body below him. He lets Newt pull him closer, even encourages Newt to tuck his head under his chin with a warm, gentle hand at the nape of his neck.

“Of course not!” He says it with as much conviction as he can, but it comes out wavering anyway as a surge of emotion overcomes him. “Why would you – why would you even _ask_ me of that? Don’t you think you’ve caused me enough grief already?” The stranger inhales sharply at his question and pulls Newt tighter against him.

His tears start to fall, but he pays them no mind. “I don’t hold it against you that you didn’t – didn’t fulfill a promise to a child as needy as I was, but…didn’t you think I deserved an explanation then?”

Neither one spoke or acted after that, until the stranger threaded his fingers through Newt’s hair and tugged gently until they were eye to eye. Newt suddenly feels a flash of embarrassment at his outburst, especially now that he can’t hide his tears, but the stranger doesn’t say a word. He brushes Newt’s tears away gently with his fingers and shakes his head at Newt’s mumbled “ _I’m sorry_.”

“If there’s anyone who should be sorry, it’s me,” the stranger murmurs. His hand now cradles Newt’s face gently, and the young man nuzzles into his palm like a touch-starved cat. “I only did what I thought...what I thought was best for you, but I just caused you more pain in the process.

If you’d let me, I’ll tell you everything."

Newt searched his face for any hint of deceit, but his face gave away nothing but sincerity, so he nods. A smile begins to unfurl on his lips, shy and unbidden, and the stranger mirrors his expression.

"Where would you like me to start?"

"Well, you could start with your name. It's tiring to keep thinking of you as stranger," Newt replies, and it makes the stranger chuckle. He takes Newt's hand in his once more, and brings it to his lips. He presses kiss after worshipful kiss on each knuckle, and the action leaves Newt breathless and flushed. The stranger’s vibrant orange eyes, deep and knowing, stay on his face the whole time.

“My name’s Percival,” he whispers, and it boils down to this point in time where they’re both fully aware of how their hearts beat in sync, and how they fit so perfectly together.

-x-

He brings up the question on a fine spring afternoon.

It’s warm enough that he can forego his usual cloak and sprawl on the ground. The gentle breeze spreads the sweet-smelling scent of newly-grown spring blooms, and Newts sits in the grass not far from him. Percival could stay here for a long time, content with just watching him weave delicate crowns from clusters of freesia, lavender, and baby’s breath.

Percival, ever so graceful in the face of adoration and driven by the moment, blurts out, “ _Newt,mayIcourtyou?_ ” When the man in question looks up, adorably confused, Percival forces himself to take a deep breath. He’s a divine being, goddammit. He can do this. 

So Percival recomposes himself, sits up, and secures Newt’s hand in his. Wearing his gentlest, most charming smile, he asks again, “May I court you?”

Newt goes quiet for a moment before a delighted laugh escapes him. Percival adores making him laugh, but now he can't do anything but panic. Has he misunderstood their relationship? He can't help but think of the worst possible situations - has Newt found someone more suitable, does he think they're better off as friends?

Or does he think Percival idiotic enough to ask if he has a chance with Newt? He may be an awe-inspiring demigod, but he's done some things that has made him a man undeserving of someone as good and kind as Newt.

His dismay at Newt's reaction must have shown on his face because he suddenly finds himself with a faceful of flowers. The smell somewhat calms Percival, and he pushes it atop his head. Before he can be properly confused though, Newt suddenly cradles his face and pulls him into a kiss. His brain promptly short-circuits, and Newt pulls away before he can react.

"Daft man," Newt says, expression fond. "I've said yes a long time ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a big fan of symbolism in flowers ok so   
>  freesia - innocence and friendship; trust   
>  lavender - love and devotion; opportunity and new adventures   
>  baby's breath - long lasting love
> 
>  
> 
> aaaand that's it!! thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments, they were very much appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> pink camellias mean longing eyyyyy
> 
> leave a comment/kudos!!! it motivates me lmao (also yes i know i have another fic to update shh soon)
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](http://raumschiffe.tumblr.com/) ayyyyyyy


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